It started with something so ordinary that no one would have thought twice about it—a pink balloon tied to the gate outside a suburban house. It wasn’t anyone’s birthday, and there were no kids around. Just that single balloon, bobbing in the evening wind.

Marissa noticed it first on her walk home from the store. She thought maybe a neighbor’s child left it behind, so she didn’t touch it. The next morning, though, the balloon wasn’t outside the gate. It was on her porch.

At first, she laughed it off. Maybe someone was playing a prank. But by the third day, the balloon was inside her house—hovering in the hallway. She lived alone.

Marissa popped it with a knife, the rubber snapping loudly. She went to bed uneasy, but relieved. The next night, she woke to the sound of faint squeaking—like latex dragging across the floor. In the darkness, she saw it: another balloon. Same color. Same string. This time, it floated right beside her bed.

Her phone buzzed. A TikTok notification. She opened it, and the top video was a girl, pale-faced, whispering: “Don’t pop it. Every time you do, it comes back… closer.”

Marissa froze. She turned back toward the balloon. It was gone. She told herself it was a dream, that she was just exhausted. But then she checked her camera roll. There was a new video she hadn’t filmed—herself, sleeping, with the balloon hovering above her face.

She ran. She didn’t pack, didn’t turn off the lights, just bolted out the door. At the end of the street, a woman in a pink dress stood perfectly still. In her hand, she held the balloon by its string, smiling with teeth too sharp to be human.

The police found Marissa’s apartment empty the next morning. All they reported was a single balloon, drifting in the kitchen, its surface marked with the faint reflection of a woman’s face—smiling.